


Life Lived Without Thinking

by pocketmouse



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-28
Updated: 2009-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketmouse/pseuds/pocketmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between seasons 1 & 2. Bits of foreshadowing for issues that crop up in CoE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Lived Without Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink bingo: sensory deprivation &amp; caning.
> 
> Thanks to sanginmychains for helping me iron out some of the narrative kinks. The regular kinks stayed in place. ;)

It had started out as a necessity. A way to keep Jack distracted, almost an obligation. Ianto didn’t know when that changed for him, when he fell for his own lies, convincing _himself_ that he wanted Jack. That he didn’t mind whoring himself out. And he had no idea if Jack had ever believed it either, or if Owen was right, and the whole sordid mess was just in his head.

And why had he wanted to believe it, anyway? He’d had to seem convincing, or Jack would have caught on that something was off — he nearly did anyway — but when had his inner reluctance slipped away? Or had he just been lying to himself when he’d thought he didn’t like it?  
He’d certainly liked it enough to try it on again with Owen.

He shivered a little, running his hand up the length of his arm. The sensations had faded, but his memories, while jumbled, were still there.

* * *

Ianto Jones sighed as he made his way down the stairwell to the lower levels of the Hub. Normally he didn’t mind exploring the depths of the archives, but today he’d rather be up in the Tourist Centre, where he could make a quick escape if he had to. Owen and Gwen were having yet _another_ screaming fight in Jack’s office (though thankfully it was just a fight, not angry sex, and thank _God_ it wasn’t in the medical bay this time, sound carried out of that room a little _too_ well), and even Tosh had fled the Hub.

“Please, Ianto, let me use the computer up here for a bit. Just twenty minutes,” she asked, her polite smile showing the strain of the month around its edges. “I promise, I’ll get them out of the Hub, but if I do this down there, they’ll be too suspicious.”

Personally, Ianto thought Gwen and Owen wouldn’t even notice Tosh doing whatever she had planned if she did it right in front of their faces, but he acquiesced. He’d used the service lift to bypass the main level of the Hub, and gone straight to the archives. He’d used that lift many times in the last year to get in and out without the team seeing him. Even Jack seemed to have largely forgotten about it, though he’d had one or two close calls.

Though there was no way Jack could have entirely forgotten about the lift, because there were a number of large items in the lower storage levels that could only have been brought in via that route. They were too large and unwieldy for the haphazard staircases and winding floor plan of the Hub. There were even a few that were too large to have fit through the doors of the rooms they were stored in. Those items Ianto found intriguing, because the notes about them in the records said nothing to indicate whether they’d been installed as the Hub was built, if there was some alien technology utilized to move them (he could think of several that had existed in Torchwood One’s storage facilities), or if they had come out of the Rift straight into those rooms. The Hub wasn’t immune to the effects of the Rift.

He still didn’t always like his job. Although, he mused, that might be the only thing he had in common with normal occupations any more. The job still had some perks at least, even if some of them were ... missing. Temporarily, he reminded himself firmly, resting his hand on the handle of the door. Nothing was ever missing forever.

He stepped through the doorway, and disappeared into blackness.

* * *

Ianto stopped, lost. It was pitch black — he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, and eyes closed or open made no difference — which made no sense, as he hadn’t closed the door behind him. He’d only come a step or two into the room, there should still be light from the hallway.

He spun around, but he was faced with yet more nothing. He stumbled forward a few steps, hoping to encounter the wall.

Nothing.

Hands outstretched, he walked carefully, then back again, though it was hard to stay close to where you might have started when you had no idea where that was to begin with.

Nothing.

“Hello?” he called.

Nothing. Literally nothing. The sound never reached his ears. “Hello!” he shouted this time. But it was as if he hadn’t opened his mouth.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded, hand running tentatively over his throat. He could feel the vibration of his vocal cords as he spoke. But he couldn’t hear it. He snapped his fingers, stamped his feet.

Nothing.

He stopped, and stamped again.

_Nothing._

With trembling hands, he crouched down, feeling for the ground. His fingers met with no resistance, so he backed up a little, finding the toes of his shoes, and skirting out from there.

Without standing up or shifting his weight, he ran his hands over the soles of his shoes.

Ianto Jones screamed, even though no one could hear him.  


* * *

  
He floated through the darkness, counting silently to himself, even after the numbers had lost all meaning, trailing on like a chain without an anchor.

And then there was a light, and the world went sideways. There was suddenly an up and a down again, and he pitched sideways into a soft weight, heavy and warm. He was surrounded — sight and sound, smell and touch. It was all too much.

There were noises all around him, and it took him several moments to sort them out, parse out the ones that he knew to be background, and filter out the low, reedy strain forming familiar words. “— Looking for you for hours. Ianto? Ianto?”

The accent and the masculine pitch meant Owen. He took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Definitely Owen. Antiseptic and hair product and skin. The smell was heady and rich, flooding his lungs with every breath. Even breathing through his nose, he could almost taste it.

“Woah, calm down,” Owen said, voice softer. There was heat against Ianto’s neck, and suddenly he could feel his pulse racing under his skin. “What happened, Ianto? There’s nothing in there.”

Ianto groaned. _Nothing_. He turned his head towards Owen, hand fisting in the material of his shirt.

“Ianto?” Owen’s hands ran through his hair. “Look at me.” Owen gently turned Ianto’s head upwards, prying each eye open in turn. Checking, Ianto realized, for a concussion.

The light in the corridor was too bright, even with Owen blocking some of it out as he leaned over him, and he knew in the back of his mind that it hadn’t even been very bright to start with. But it still stung, and he closed his eyes again as soon as Owen let him go. The world was a flood of red behind his eyelids.

“Ianto, c’mon, talk to me.” Owen’s hands against his scalp felt criminally good. He felt like he could feel each individual movement as Owen carded through his hair. “Dammit, you had to hole up somewhere we can’t get a stretcher. Come on, then, do you want me to carry you back to the Medbay?”

The thought of being pressed so close to Owen felt better than it should. The hand that wasn’t fisted in Owen’s shirt had found a sliver of skin and was thumbing across it. Ianto wanted to taste the smooth skin of that stomach so badly, and he realized with a start that he was hard, the satisfying ache of his erection creeping up on him so slowly, the first sensation that had felt right and that he’d been able to truly recognize fully.

He could pull away. His head was still awhirl, but things were settling into place, and he knew where he was and who Owen was, and that this was a terrible mistake, but Owen’s smell was familiar, and the taste — _yes_, warmth and salt; his mouth started to water and he searched for more, tugging Owen’s shirt up.

“What —” Owen jerked back, faster than Ianto was prepared for. He caught himself before he hit the ground, his trapped erection pressed against the ground. He moaned a little at the loss of contact. He shifted again, rocking tentatively against the floor, but it wasn’t the same, and he rolled over, contemplating the relative loss of dignity in tackling Owen in the middle of the hallway versus shoving his trousers down and just taking himself in hand.

“Tosh, give me the environmental readings down here,” Owen was saying. “I don’t care, give them to me again,” he snapped. “There must be something.” He stepped around Ianto carefully to shut the door. Good. Ianto never wanted to go in there again. They should seal it off, leave all the emptiness trapped inside, where it could never get out again.

“Right. C’mere.” There was something odd to the tone in Owen’s voice. Ianto rolled over onto his back. It almost didn’t hurt to look up now. The air in the hallway was cool, too cool, like ice over his body. Ianto shivered, all his senses in overdrive. He felt like his senses were reaching outside of his body. Trying to find something else, trying to reconnect to the rest of the world.

Owen’s hands were on the fly of his trousers. “I may never be able to sleep untroubled again,” Owen muttered, reaching into Ianto’s pants and pulling out his still-hard cock, “but it’s this or call the girls down, and I doubt you want that.” His hand on Ianto’s dick felt incredible, strong fingers stripping the orgasm from him in quick jerks. “And I figure keeping the video footage under wraps will keep you quiet enough.”

Ianto lay gasping for a moment, trying to slow his breathing, find his skull. Owen cleaned him roughly and tucked him away again, and it was at once an agony and the most amazing thing he’d ever felt. The contradictory feelings fought each other in a buzzing cyclone around his head, leaving him dizzy, everything fading to black around the edges.

“I think,” he managed before he passed out, “that Tosh has already beat you with the camera footage.”

* * *

The feeling of returning to consciousness was unfortunately yet reassuringly familiar. Ianto felt unquestionably like himself again, only himself and no farther. He lay still for a minute, mapping the outline of his body, cataloguing each sensation before carefully opening his eyes.

The Hub was in nighttime mode, its lights dim, but Ianto could still make out above him the white ceramic tile ceiling that told him he was in the Medical Bay. Everything was quiet, though, no monitors or equipment, and he sat up carefully.

“Don’t even think about going anywhere.”

Ianto looked up. He hadn’t even realized Owen was in the room, but there he was, seated across from him, arms crossed and seated casually back in his chair. He looked like he had all the time in the world. And judging from the open carton of Chinese sitting on the desk, Owen was prepared to stay a while.

“Just sitting up,” Ianto said mildly, not wanting to give Owen anything to argue with. “What happened?” he asked. Step one was always figuring out what the opposition knew.

Owen narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “All your readings have come back normal, as did the atmospheric readings for the hallway. Whatever happened, it was physically contained to the other side of that door.”

And his body, Ianto thought. He tried to study Owen without looking at him but it was impossible, Owen was staring right at him; so Ianto gave in and stared back. “Yet you’re not letting me leave the medical bay,” he said evenly.

“You disappeared for several hours while inside the Hub, in a room no bigger than a refrigerator, and came out of it having some sort of fit, and then tried to bone the first person you saw,” Owen said, pulling no punches. “I don’t care what the readings say, you’re not going anywhere until I know that whatever happened is over.”

Ianto looked away. “Right.”

“Come on,” Owen said, standing. “Get over it. I’ve had worse in one shift of A&amp;E than I had this afternoon.” He started taking Ianto’s pulse and checking his reflexes, and his touch felt just like it always did; no more, no less. That didn’t reassure Ianto.

Owen frowned up at him, hand still around his wrist. “No, seriously. Relax.” He sent a nod over his shoulder, indicating the rest of the Hub. “Everyone else has gone home, and I personally don’t give a damn whether you try and punch me in the face again or get on your knees and suck my dick, so long as you let me find out what happened to you.” His lips twitched in a grin. “Though to tell the truth, I have my preferences.”

“You like getting punched in the face, do you?” Ianto said dryly, but relaxed minutely.

Owen seemed satisfied with this, and looked back at his watch. “You said it, not me.” He continued with his tests, most of which involved the medical scanners, and Ianto quickly found himself zoning out, doing his own mental check on himself.

Everything that happened after he’d stepped into the room was a blur, time compressed and stretched, events out of sequence, single instances jumping out in vivid detail, others empty gaps, like a stop-motion film, but he didn’t want to see the climax.

“How long was I gone?” he asked, trying to distract himself.

“Almost four hours,” Owen replied, his voice serious.

Ianto nodded dumbly. It hadn’t felt that long. It had felt like an eternity. He couldn’t remember which. Funny, it used to be that he could be gone all day and no one would so much as blink.

Owen sat back, apparently done. “Tell me what happened.”

Ianto debated for a moment. Owen was a prick, tactless and self-absorbed. And even if it made being treated by him an ordeal, it never affected his actions. Even after their fight over the Rift Manipulator, Owen had treated Ianto, if silently and sullenly.

“What was in there, Ianto?”

“Nothing.” He looked at his hands, remembering the way he’d reached out, trying to find something to ground himself. “Literally nothing. I — even the ground beneath my feet was gone.”

“But there was air, you could breathe,” Owen asked.

“I suppose. I don’t remember that much,” Ianto replied.

“I opened the door, and you practically fell out of the room. There wasn’t space in there for anything else. It looked empty.”

Ianto shook his head. “There’s nothing in the database on that whole wing, the information was lost to flooding.” Torchwood Three’s shoddy recordkeeping had once been a boon to him, but he was regretting ever being thankful for it now.

Owen looked annoyed by the lack of easy answer. “I’ll take some more scans of the room, but if nothing happens, I’d rather seal it off and leave it.” Ianto felt uneasy about this course, but he couldn’t say why, and he couldn’t think of anything better. He certainly didn’t want to go back in there himself.

“Right then,” Owen said sharply, the matter obviously concluded. “Let me know if anything happens that might be related. I do want to make sure you didn’t set something loose. Pity there’s no CRIMINT listings for spontaneous orgasms,” he said with a grin, and Ianto pushed off the table.

“Check for a sharp rise in car accidents,” Ianto suggested, but without heat. He stepped away from the medical bay, buttoning up his vest. Owen didn’t follow.

Next to the couch, he hesitated. The door to Jack’s office was closed, the lights dark. “I’m going home,” he called after a moment, and keyed the rolling cog door.

Then he slipped into Jack’s office, not needing the lights to find his way.

* * *

Jack’s small room was familiar, moreso than it had any right to be. Even with Jack gone, it still smelled of him, impermeable even to the Hub’s thorough air circulation system. It kicked in familiar instincts, and Ianto’s pulse slowed down, his heartbeat calmed. Jack had that effect on him.

Or rather, he’d had to affect that around Jack. He’d been lying, of course, had heard rumors and was sure he had a fool-proof way in. It turned out he was the fool. Jack had let down his guard, but Ianto had let down his own in turn, and now he was paying for it, in ways he hadn’t imagined.

The fabric of the sheets felt rough against his hands as he sat on the cot, and he held his breath for a moment, trying to analyze every creaking spring and hint of scent, to see if it was too much or if his mind was playing tricks on him again. He still didn’t know what had happened inside that room. He only knew what had happened after.

_God, Owen?_ He scrubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t even like Owen, the man was incapable of being a decent human being. He was unattractive (not, Ianto reminded himself, that he should have a scale for such things), and selfish, and —

Ianto shook his head, frustrated. None of that mattered, because he wasn’t attracted to men. Owen was just because of whatever the room had done, and Jack — Jack was Jack. Jack was convenient, and it didn’t mean anything more.

He didn’t want anything more.   


* * *

  
Somewhere along the line, without actually meaning to, Ianto fell asleep on Jack’s cramped, undersized cot. His internal clock meant that he was still upstairs before the others got in, and didn’t have to explain himself emerging from Jack’s quarters. It did mean that he had to use his emergency suit from the lockers downstairs, leaving him feeling a bit off-kilter. Especially since once he made his way upstairs again, intent on his goal of the coffee maker, the rest of the team was already there, drawn in a suspicious circle around Owen, at the head of the stairs to the Medical Bay.

“Ianto,” Gwen called, breaking away. “How’re you feeling?” She put a hand on his shoulder, concerned eyes looking up into his.

Ianto endured her touch, since he could see over her shoulder that Tosh and Owen were watching him closely. He gave a light smile and nodded at Gwen. “I’m fine, thanks. I’m sorry I worried you.” He stepped back. “Coffee?” he asked, using the offer as a means of escape.

“I brought some in,” Tosh said, half apologetically. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be in this morning.” She tilted her head a little, still looking him over.

“Took me most of the night, but I’ve figured out what that room does,” Owen said, looking directly at Ianto, and there was no way that wasn’t a cue for him to come back down there, so he did, reluctantly.

Owen shot a slightly triumphant look at him, then turned to the projection lighting up the far wall of the medbay. “It’s not an artifact of the Rift. It’s a sensory deprivation room, totally blocks out all external input. Based on alien technology, yeah, but built into the Hub, on purpose.” Architectural and electrical plans of the Hub sprang up, highlighting the room. “Looks like it was added in the 50’s, but that’s all I can see.”

“There were several modifications made to the Hub around that time,” Tosh spoke up. “Most of them were safety upgrades, and infrastructure repairs after damage done during the Blitz.” Her gaze flickered upwards for a moment before settling back on Owen. “Do you think that room could count as a safety feature? It hardly seems likely.”

Owen shook his head. “Depends on what projects they were working on at the time. There are a couple things I could think of, but I couldn’t say for certain. I’d guess that it was probably built for a specific project, since it seems to have been forgotten in the meantime.”

Ianto let the debate continue over his head. He was trying to process what exactly the ramifications of sensory deprivation were. “I’ll just —” he nodded towards the coffee machine again, and this time the others let him go.

But he could feel Owen’s eyes on him the whole time he walked away.

* * *

They forgot quickly. Ianto wasn’t surprised by this. He’d thought — back when everything was a mess, and he was sinking into himself, and Jack was the only escape mechanism he had — that he hated being ignored, being invisible. It was such an abrupt change from his childhood: sharing a bedroom with his sister, parents who were friends with the teachers, classmates who lived right next door and of _course_, he would _love_ to come and play.

But it was just two sides to the same coin, wasn’t it? Being unknown. He’d wanted someone to catch him out, to fix things for him. And now the only person who had even tried to fix things was gone. Not that he was sure what Jack might have done with this mess. He’d seemed calm enough at the end of it, but he’d left then. And Ianto didn’t know what to do with that, how to fix it.

But he could fix this, if that meant ignoring it wholesale, which everyone else seemed fine with. Owen obviously wasn’t speaking a word, which surprised Ianto a little, but he figured if Owen did try to bring it up at an inconvenient moment, Ianto just wouldn’t give him the reaction he was looking for. Whatever that was.

Ianto stopped walking. Without being aware of where he’d been going, he found himself once again outside the sensory deprivation room.

Knowing the room for what it was, he was no better able to remember the exact sensations, either inside the room or upon exiting, but he could parse them out better, identify what was him and what was just the effects of the room.

Presumably.

A spark of memory hit him for a moment — kissing Owen, the feel of another body beneath his, lighter, skinny, but strong. The feeling of being entirely wrapped up in the sensation of someone else, with no other motivations, and no fear of consequences.

He reached for the door again.  


* * *

  
The door opened, bright light spilling in, and once again there was gravity and sound, the whole world rushing in. Ianto could feel the rough texture of cloth and the hot press of muscle as Owen grabbed him around the shoulders, yanking him out of the room. He didn’t care that Owen was yelling, scolding, because _this_ was the part he wanted, _this_ was what he wanted, the waking up, not the being asleep.

He leaned into Owen, mouthing along the line of his neck, wanting to feel Owen’s pulse on his lips, heat and friction. But Owen pushed him away, glaring forcefully.

“Dammit, you’ve got to stop,” Owen said. His fingers were like individual pressure points against Ianto’s skin. Ianto closed his eyes, trying to prolong the sensations that came from coming out of the room. He leaned his weight into Owen, forcing him to keep holding him up or risk him falling to the floor. “Ianto.” Owen shook him sharply. “Ianto, look at me.”

One of Owen’s hands dropped away, and before Ianto could decide what to do about it, Owen struck him across the face. It was a resounding slap, and Ianto gasped, opening his eyes in shock. “It’s not even two o’clock. You haven’t been in there for an hour.”

Ianto pulled back sharply. Owen’s face showed that he wasn’t lying, but that couldn’t be right. He shouldn’t be able to feel the effects this strongly after only forty minutes. But he needed — he needed —

Ianto could suddenly feel the weight of Owen’s gaze bearing down on him, stronger than the pressure of his fingers had been. He didn’t know what to do.

Owen trailed a knuckle down the back of Ianto’s neck and he shivered.

“Hm.”

* * *

Owen was slow, methodical, careful, obviously fascinated by Ianto’s hypersensitive reaction to every stroke. Even through the cloth, every hit of the switch was like fireworks, exploding and trailing off underneath his skin. He moaned as the next lash came down square across the back of his thighs.

So light. “More,” he demanded, breathless, teeth gritted.

Owen chuckled. “You don’t get a say in this, Ianto,” he drew out the deliberate mispronunciation. There was another stroke to the backs of his thighs, this one further down, and even lighter, if that was possible. “You know, I always regretted that I never got to try this at school. I was just a few years shy of that — well, officially, at least. Mother did make sure I went to a good school, was brought up right,” he said, a bitter sneer in his tone.

Ianto gritted his teeth. “You mind if we don’t talk about your mother right about now?” he asked. That earned him another swat, and perversely he relaxed.

“Should’ve known you’d like shit like this,” Owen continued. “But of course you’d be in for punishment. Goes right along with the self-delusion.

“This isn’t supposed to be punishment. Well, not just punishment,” Owen amended. “It’s supposed to be instructional.” He grinned, as sharp as the stinging slaps he laid straight across the flesh of Ianto’s arse. “I know _I’m_ learning something.” He ran a hand over the spot and Ianto shuddered.

“So instruct me, then,” Ianto replied, wetting his lips.

“You know, I got access to a lot of files when Jack left,” Owen said casually, and Ianto thought he knew where this was going, but Owen proved him wrong. “Including your psych files. Funny those weren’t given to me originally as your medical doctor, but I can see why Jack kept them to himself.” That hadn’t been Jack. That had been Ianto, Lisa telling him how to get access to the server. He wondered for a moment if Jack had ever read the files. He guessed yes, but sometimes the way Jack had acted around him, he wasn’t so sure.

Owen laid another blow to his arse, and Ianto’s wandering attention sharpened. “You’ve got an amazing capacity for self-delusion. And deluding others, too.” Owen’s fingers under his chin forced him to look up into his eyes. “If it wasn’t a necessity of the job, I’d call it pathological.” Owen’s grin was sharp, familiar. “But I bet it wasn’t a detraction for you, either.”

“Sorry, but so far you’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know,” Ianto deflected.

Owen pushed his head back down. “You must think I’m stupid. I didn’t get into medical school by giving blowjobs.” His thumb ran over the curve of Ianto’s lip. “Not every institution is run by Jack Harkness.” Ianto restrained the urge to bite Owen’s thumb. “You’re trying to use this as — what, some sort of punishment? Trying to convince yourself you’re not gay, that you don’t like sex with blokes?” Ianto stiffened in surprise, and Owen jerked him upright. The marks from the lash burned again as he was pressed down against the chair. “There’s a flaw, there, though, Ianto,” Owen leaned in, trailing the edge of the cane along the inside of Ianto’s bared arm. “You’re not gay.”

Ianto swallowed. What the hell was Owen playing at? “I think the events of yesterday would beg to differ,” he said, throat dry.

Owen rolled his eyes. “It’s called being bisexual, Ianto. What do you think I am? Hell, what do you think Jack is?”

“Easy?” Ianto ventured. He tried not to think about it.

Owen let out a snort of laughter. “That too. But that’s beside the point. I’m not punishing you for liking blokes,” Owen said it as a fact, not a clarification. “I’m just showing you the human capacity for turning anything into a sexual experience.” Owen brought the cane down, sharp and light, against the inside of Ianto’s right wrist, over the strong tendons and blue veins, neatly bisecting the scar left from his desperate fight through the wreckage of Torchwood One, looking for Lisa. Owen knew that scar was there, he’d struck there purposely. “Especially things they’re uncomfortable with. That they don’t want to acknowledge liking.” Owen repeated the strike then mirrored it on the other wrist, red welts rising on his skin. “And you like it, don’t you?”

Ianto hesitated.

“Tell me.” Owen drew the trip up the inside of Ianto’s thigh, reminding him that he didn’t have to say anything for Owen to know his answer. This was just a formality.

“Yes,” he responded.

“Tell me why,” Owen ordered, once again unbalancing Ianto. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work, Owen was supposed to give him what he needed and then leave him alone. But when had Owen ever done what Ianto had wanted? There was a spark in his eyes, interest and amusement.

Ianto cast about for an answer. “I don’t know.”

_Smack_. Owen slapped his inner thigh sharply. “Yes you do.”

Ianto gasped at the shock. It’d been hours now since he’d come out of the room, but it had to be that, still increasing his sensitivity. There was no way this should feel so good, so intense. “I haven’t thought about it,” he gasped.

Another smack. “Of course you have. You overthink everything, it’s why you’re in this mess in the first place. Tell me.”

“It’s easy,” he blurted out at last, and Owen leaned back a fraction of an inch. “Men — think with their dicks, and they don’t want to know more, they just want to get off.” Except Owen, damn him, what was he doing?

“You want something you can be in control of. I can understand that,” Owen said. He pressed the tip of the cane along Ianto’s inseam, trapped erection visible through the cloth. “Can’t understand your choices, but I can understand your reasoning.” He paused. "Jack's pretty easy to like," Owen said, a touch of regret in his voice, and Ianto wondered briefly what it had been like in the Hub before him.

“Did you and he —?”

“Coupla times,” Owen said casually. “Like I said, it doesn’t mean anything.” His hands were still.

Ianto shook his head. “I don’t —”

Owen’s hands moved lightning fast, pressing hard into Ianto’s groin, and for a moment he saw white. “You don’t get to argue,” Owen growled, “when you still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ianto gasped a little, and Owen traced a thumb over his lips. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. And you don’t get to make that argument, that you’re not gay, or that you are gay, and you’re only doing it because of that room.” He cupped Ianto’s erection. “You like it. And that’s all there is to it.” He squeezed once, then stepped back.

“You’re screwed up. But everybody is.” He slapped the top of Ianto’s thighs with the cane again, lightly. “You can’t use that as an excuse. You get that?”

Ianto was quivering, trying to ignore everything Owen just said, even as the words rang in echoing circles around his head. “I can’t —”

Owen struck him again. “That’s the lesson, Ianto. You’ve got to learn it. Understand?” Another stoke.

Ianto remained silent. He was hard, painfully so, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer, couldn’t ignore the way Owen’s words pressed into his mind. Because Owen was actually _looking_, and that meant that it was real.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Do you _understand_?” Owen repeated, bringing the switch down again, and god, Ianto was hard, nearly sobbing with it.

“Yes!” he cried out, breathing uneven.

“Do you want me to stop?” Owen asked, same even tone.

“No!” Ianto exclaimed, but Owen stepped back despite it, setting the switch down out of reach.

“The way things are and the way you want things to be aren’t always the same thing. I don’t think you’ve learned that lesson yet.” And he walked away, leaving Ianto red-faced and panting, and hard as a rock.

* * *

Ianto looked around cautiously. Owen was upstairs, but he was starting to suspect. There were the others, though. He felt a bit uncomfortable asking that of Tosh, but Gwen, surely Gwen —

A hot flush of shame ran through him, and he shoved the thoughts away. Grasping the doorknob instead, he stepped into the room.

The walls three feet away were bare, unfinished brick. He could feel the solid concrete floor beneath his feet.

“Missing something?” a familiar voice spoke up calmly from behind him. “I’ve been watching you on the monitors.”

Ianto couldn’t turn around, stuck looking at the bare walls where he was sure there should be nothing. “What did you do?” he asked, voice sounding compellingly normal.

“I shut down the power to this part of the floor. Got Tosh to think I’d broken something, and she went back far enough to get just this area isolated.” Owen’s voice was calm, almost smug. “She’s good, got it fixed really narrow, even the ceiling lights are still working.”

“The lighting system is on a separate power line in case of emergencies,” Ianto said absently. He pressed his lips shut. His heart was beating rapidly inside his chest.

Owen was directly behind him. He thought for a moment he heard movement, but nothing happened. “Go home,” Owen said at last, voice quiet, almost tired. It had lost the power from before, but still Ianto obeyed.  


* * *

  
When Jack came back again, out of the same nowhere he’d disappeared to, Ianto found himself lying all over again. And again he fell for it. Owen was right, it was an addiction.

So he put Owen out of his mind. He didn’t need to know what it meant, where it came from.

Lies were easier to live with.  


* * *

  
A couple weeks after Owen died, Ianto happened to be walking down that corridor, and he caught Owen standing outside the doorway to the Room, arms folded across his chest, chin propped on one hand.

“Owen?” he said. He didn’t put a hand out. It wouldn’t do any good.

Owen started, and turned to him, reluctance showing in every line of his body. “It’s like I’m trapped in that room,” he said, voice soft. “And I’ll never get out.”

It was even worse than that, Ianto thought. Because Owen had a tease of what it was supposed to be like, an echo, sight and sound but no taste, no touch. He put a hand on Owen’s arm despite himself, because he didn’t know what to say. The rest of the world might have turned inside out, but that was still true.

But he’d learned his lesson.

Owen looked down at his hand, and didn’t move away.


End file.
